Beyond This Illusion
by CornishGirl
Summary: Only Dean's beloved Impala could get them to safety after a bad hunt . . . but Sam was unconscious, and Dean in no shape to drive.


_**Beyond This Illusion**_

* * *

><p>Tired. So tired.<p>

Difficult hunt. Semi successful. But collateral damage.

"Sammy?"

Darkness. The moon was but a sliver. The Impala cut her way down the two-lane blacktop as if she drove herself; for that, Dean was grateful. He was . . . tired. So tired. And they needed help. This aftermath, they couldn't handle on their own.

"Sammy?"

Beside him, the slumped body moved. It wasn't much. A twitch. A brief, aborted flop of hands. The smack of skull against passenger window as he attempted to rouse, faded again.

"Come on, Sammy."

But nothing from his brother.

Dean blinked. Squeezed his eyes shut tight, then stretched them wide. Regardless of weariness, of wounds, his brain fed him data: _watch the road; steer the wheel; keep foot on the accelerator._

Should be automatic, every single impulse, all responses. But he was so tired . . . so dreadfully tired that he had to _think_ his way through all. To process every infinitesimal response of his body.

Drive. Drive.

"Sammy?"

So dark outside. Why was it always dark? Why did they hunt so often at night?

Because that's where the bad things were.

If Sam wasn't talking, Dean nonetheless knew he needed something. Outside stimulus. Something to keep his brain engaged.

One hand off the wheel. He could manage that. A weak flailing punch at rectangular buttons, once believed so cutting edge, and the search for a radio station. Talk radio. He loved his music, wanted it badly, but right now, to keep himself awake, he needed talk radio. Something that would involve his brain, even if only to shout at the idiot who claimed he knew the Way to Truth and Life in the Hereafter; or a guy who claimed a reasonable man's politics were informed by the Devil.

Dean wasn't religious. He wasn't political. He knew the truth far better than most.

But arguing with radio broadcasts from men who couldn't hear him would keep him awake.

"Sammy?"

And again, his brother shifted. Dean cast a glance at the body beside him on the wide bench seat. Sam had begun the jump-to-lightspeed escape upright, but had listed, then slumped. Even when Dean reached out, caught coat, dragged his brother upright again, gravity interfered. Sam had gone sideways once more, falling against the passenger side door. Now, at Dean's voice, he roused, scrabbled, seemed to know he was not sitting upright. Seemed to know that was the preferred position.

Dean locked his right hand into his brother's coat even as he drove one-handed, squinted through the starred windshield. No moon. The Impala made her own light. But of four, only one headlight splashed illumination against the blacktop.

"You awake?" Dean asked. "You here?"

Sam sat upright. He stared blindly through the cracked windshield.

"Sammy - ?"

No response. Conscious, Dean thought, but not exactly among the living. Not as they knew it.

Talk radio came in, went out. Dean kept his left hand clamped on the wheel, the other dug deep into his brother's coat. "Stay with me. You hear me? Stay with me, Sammy!"

The speedometer dial blurred. Dean thought it read 40. Not fast enough. He depressed the accelerator, felt the Impala respond. Juiced it to 50 easily with the big engine. Yes, 50 was an improvement. But faster, he thought; yes, faster would be better. It would get them to help sooner.

He stepped again on the accelerator. "Sammy . . . hang on . . . Baby'll get us to safety."

Two-lane blacktop. Looked like four lanes.

His left hand slipped from the wheel. The Impala was free. Like a horse with no bridle.

Dean felt her go. Felt her swing left. The road curved right.

_. . . no . . ._

He let go of Sam, shut both hands on the wheel again. Even as he guided his baby back onto blacktop, he registered that his brother had skidded against leather seatback to the right. Yet again, Sam lay slumped and boneless against the right-side door, head vibrating on the window.

It had all gone to hell in a handbasket. The single bakulor turned out to be a den, with ravenous cubs looking for a first meal.

Mama Bear, Dean thought. No, not a bear, something far more dangerous; but his brain fed him the image nonetheless, of a big brown bear-like bakulor exiting hibernation with five cubs. He and Sam were certain of the timing, had studied the timing, but Mother Nature had elected to wake this litter early. Ravenous mother, five cubs needing so badly to make their first kill. Oh, silver bullets had done plenty of damage, but he and Sam had not anticipated a fully awake mother with five cubs. And they weren't of the cute stuffed animal persuasion, but more like five pitbulls loosed upon the world, with claws containing venom.

There hadn't been time to catalog injuries. Dean merely knew that in his world, what mattered was getting Sam out of harm's way. In the melee they had wounded Mama Bear, killed two of the cubs, but came out of it badly bitten and clawed. The remaining three cubs had, fortunately, turned at once on their own kind, taking that for a meal, while Dean grabbed his brother, yanked him upright, pushed him back the way they had come.

So much stumbling, from Sam. And falling. And incoherent blurtings of aborted words. And Dean kept yanking him up, pushing him, driving him onward.

Dean knew his brother was hurt. He knew _he_ was hurt. But the only option, with both of them injured, was to make it to the car. Was to drive their way out of trouble. To find help of any nature, even a hospital.

Two-lane blacktop. Their world. Not made of interstates, of rest stops, of exits. So much shaped of the portions that rated little or no mention upon the maps.

Dean blinked hard. He gripped the wheel tightly, steering along the faded white paint strips centering the road. He heard the static and the voices, the soothing tones of a radio evangelist promising salvation.

No. Soothing was not what he desired. Where was the fire and brimstone?

" . . . Sam-_**my**_ . . ."

He squinted. Only one of Baby's headlights stabbed the darkness.

Mama Bear. Mama Bear had tracked them. Had loomed out of the darkness even as the Impala roared to life. Dean hadn't hesitated. He'd floored the accelerator and driven right through her.

And Baby was wounded even as he and Sam were. Three eyes blinded, windshield cracked from the impact, but she drove. She cut through the night, answering his hands, responding to his foot upon the gas pedal.

# # #

He wanted a house. A rest stop. An interstate. A roadhouse. Anything. Any place where he could stop, could explain that his brother needed help.

Cell phone had no signal.

Beside him, Sam stirred. Long limbs jerked, sought purchase. Short, noisy breaths issued from his mouth. Dean heard something approximating his name upon a stumbling, stuttering tongue.

" . . . here . . ." he managed. " . . . Sammy, Sammy . . . _here_ . . . "

Sam strung together a series of unintelligible words, not much more than sounds interspersed with syllables. Then three words came clear: " . . . you . . . Dean . . . you . . . "

It was difficult to speak, but not because of pain. Not because of _physical_ pain. Just that—it was Sam, and his shattered, incoherent question. " . . . peachy, Sam . . . "

But his baby veered again, and Dean snapped upright, forced himself to focus on the road ahead, on the two-lane blacktop, on the faded, stuttered stripes. He bit deeply into his bottom lip, welcoming pain. Even the blood.

Sam slid left. His body bent as if boneless, and he fell against Dean's right side.

Oh God. Oh Jesus. Oh, hell, _anyone_.

" . . . Sammy . . ."

Dean drove a fist into his own right thigh over and over again. When that stopped working, he slapped his face. When that stopped working, he bit into his thumb.

_. . . drive . . . drive . . . drive . . ._

The radio wasn't right. At some point all the talking had stopped. He needed the talking. Needed something, anything, other than silence. He punched buttons, twisted the dial. Nothing.

" . . . Sammy . . ."

Nothing.

Baby went right. He slid left.

He roused as the Impala left the road, ran over things that jolted him awake. Tall grass, weeds, shrubbery whipped against her right fender. The single headlight flashed off of tree trunks. Dean yanked the wheel left, fed her gas, steered back onto asphalt, pulled himself upright. Sam lay heavy against his right side.

Baby was always responsive. But she needed someone at the wheel. She required a steady hand upon that wheel, a competent foot upon the gas pedal. She was a '67 beauty, a bad-ass muscle car, but she lacked cruise control, airbags, all of the niceties of modern vehicles. Dean would trade her for none of them—but she was not as forgiving as her younger siblings, with a man behind the wheel who could barely see. Could barely remain conscious.

" . . . Dean . . ."

It jerked him into awareness. "Sammy! _Sammy_ . . . you 'wake . . .?"

" . . . where . . . ?"

Dean couldn't even remember the name of the podunk town where they'd taken a motel room. "I don't know . . . I don't know . . . somewhere, Sammy . . . I'll find help somewhere . . . "

" . . . Dean . .. you 'kay . . .?"

" . . . peachy . . . peachy, Sam. I promise . . . "

And then Baby hit a tree.

# # #

" . . . Dean . . . ?"

He lay slumped over the steering wheel. His face was numb.

" . . . Dean . . . ?"

No engine noise. Baby's heart was stilled. But radio static issued from the speakers.

He flailed briefly, found purchase with his arms. Pressed himself upright from the wheel. A trembling hand found wetness on his face. Explored further, discovered a split in his forehead, a slick of blood.

Had he not been riding in the _back_ seat? Had it not been _Sam_ driving, and their father on the passenger side of the car with a bullet in his leg when the semi hit them?

He felt a hand on his thigh, fingers digging in. He winced. Realized it was _Sam_ who had been in the passenger side of the car, _Sam_ who had been slumped against him.

And Dad . . . Dad was dead.

It was _Sam_ who even now attempted to crawl up from a tangle of limbs upon the floorboards.

Yet again, Dean fumbled for the phone. A signal. His eyes doubled the screen as it lighted. He thumbed three buttons with infinite care. Heard the dispatcher pick up. " . . . they're comin', Sammy . . . "

Sam had made the vast journey from floorboards onto the front seat. Dean was aware of the weight of his brother's head atop his right thigh. He dropped his hand to it, touched the hair, stroked it briefly, then closed his hand into the jacket. Gripped it, and clung.

From the radio, no more evangelists. It was 0-Dark-30, and the programming changed. Rock. Classic rock. Dean smiled.

Dark. Dark outside. Two-lane blacktop middle of nowhere, with Baby doing a face-plant against a tree.

The DJ muttered, and then the harmonies abruptly blasted from the radio, slamming through the car. Dean smiled again; despite it being prog rock, not his preferred metal, he'd always liked the song.

Then the signal died. Nothing more than silence, save for their own breathing.

Dean could not abide that.

" . . . Sammy . . . you okay if I sing? Just till they get here?"

Sam muttered something. Dean took it as assent.

Silence in the car, save for the ticking of Baby's engine. Dean managed regardless in a breathy, halting, almost soundless whisper. _" . . . my wayward son . . . be peace . . . when you . . . done . . . weary head to rest . . . cry no more . . ."_

When the paramedics arrived, Sam's voice, weak as it was, had joined in the chorus. Injured, breathless, weary unto death, neither of them truly _sang_, not as singing was known. But it didn't matter.

So long as they sang it together.

* * *

><p><em>~ end ~<em>


End file.
